Chapter Text
The speaker hissed faintly above Simon’s head. He wished it would stop or at least fade away into white noise, but it had been at it for… fuck knows how long now. Probably since he was welded inside, if he were honest with himself. With the general look of “care” the submarine showed, it wouldn’t surprise him in the fucking slightest. Time had abandoned him down here, just like everything else. The only sign that time passed at all were the glowing green numbers of his coordinates. They grew and shrank as he carefully piloted his way along the blood ocean’s floor.
The tedious work—infrequently interrupted by the buzzing proximity alarms whenever he grew too close to an obstacle—and the ambient sounds under the blood ocean had him tense and hyper-vigilant. So in tune with the dull roar of static, a sudden, sharp crackle and hiss had him flinching. A hand snapped up to protectively shield his left ear from the assault as he hunched away from it. The charcoal pencil started to roll off his map and in his haste to grab it, the released map fluttered away to the floor.
“Fucking… shit.” Simon muttered under his breath. He snapped his head up toward the speaker expectantly, his brows furrowed in a heated glare. What the fuck did they want now?
As angry as he was at being interrupted, he still desired the human connection, as minimal as it was. Damn his heart or brain or whatever part of his body that made him crave social interaction. But… the interaction didn’t come. Body taut with expectation, he waited only for nothing to come over the speaker. No voices, at least. But there was something filtering through the white noise.
Simon found himself drawing back on the throttle, sitting a little straighter, and staring at the speaker box. He had no idea where the microphone was and up until now he’d just shouted back at them when they spoke. He cocked his head as he strained to discern what the sound was. Another couple notes filtered through the hissing of the speaker and, for lack of anything better to do, Simon attempted to whistle them back.
Fuck, he sucked at whistling more than a single note.
Silence answered him at first, not that he was surprised. He huffed to himself and finally snatched the map and now-broken charcoal off the floor. At least the meager writing utensil hadn’t fallen through the gaps in the grate. The map rustled as he turned back to the control panel and smoothed it out before him once more. He’d only just tucked one of the halves of the charcoal up into his forehead band for safe keeping when he heard it again, gentler this time.
It had to be music, but Simon had never heard music like that before. No mortal mouth could make such beautiful and melancholic sounds. His chest ached with a deep sense of loneliness and despair in sympathy—something he thought had withered within him from the fourteen years he’d spent rotting in a C.O.I. prison. He rubbed at his sternum with the heel of his palm in an attempt to dispel it. All that did was make the ache physical as well as emotional. The rubbing stopped as Simon stared at the glint of reflected light at his wrist. He pressed harder against his sternum, curling in on himself, as his wrist burned in remembrance. The bruising had long faded but the agony of having his pendant and his last connection to the Last Tree ripped away was as sharp as ever.
Unbidden, a broken hum scraped itself from Simon’s throat—a single, wavering note in answer to the song over the speaker. It barely managed to overtake the ambient sounds of the submarine around him. Emboldened by the lack of reaction, a few more notes followed. At first, he’d simply intended to echo the notes he heard in an attempt to maybe learn the song for himself. The tune twisted in his throat, mutating into something else—something as lovely as it was painful.
He hadn’t dared sing his mother’s lullaby in years. Not out loud. He couldn’t bear the thought of sharing it, or someone stealing it and ruining one of the only things he had left of hers. The ravages of time had stolen her face from his memory despite his efforts to never forget how she looked when she was healthy or even when she laid sick and dying. Fragments remained, scraped close by desperate hands and buried deep within the protective cage of his ribs—the shadow of a dimple on her thin cheek, the dark brown eyes that he saw in his own reflection, the way her fingers would gently touch the green glass bead she wore at the base of her throat. While those details remained so fuzzy for Simon, that lullaby had stayed with him. He hoped it would never leave him.
The next few notes caught in Simon’s throat. He could either let the song choke off into silence or fight through what tried to smother him. Throat bobbing, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He pushed on, the words mumbled under his breath but slowly growing stronger even as his eyes burned at the memory. “And… when I grow t’be a poppy in the graveyard…” A shaky hand raised to his chest and unerringly found the hidden bead, secured between layers of his cowl and countless stitches that held the patchwork piece together. “I’ll send you all my love upon the breeze…”
The C.O.I. had taken so much from him but the worst blow had been when they took her knife. It had been the last gift she’d been able to give and despite him going quietly, despite him turning himself in, they refused to let him keep it no matter how he’d begged. Any shred of dignity and pride had been carved from his marrow and given unto them and still he was found lacking. Weighed and measured and not worth the scraps of humanity they’d left in tatters at his feet. When they’d left him alone in his cell, bleeding and bruised and barely conscious, he’d grinned with bloodied teeth. They hadn’t found the bead when they strip-searched him and he made damn sure they never would.
“And if the breeze won't blow your way,” he paused as his breath hitched. The silence revealed how the music over the speaker was now echoing the tune he sang, albeit haltingly. “I will be the… the sun.” If the Director was lying, if… if they didn’t free him after this? He was the only one who remembered his mother and her song. “And if the sun won't shine your way,” the voice crack didn’t stop him, nor did the burn of tears, “I will be the rain.”
But maybe… maybe this stranger would listen and remember it for him. Maybe they had a child they loved more than life itself and didn't have a lullaby for them. So much of human history, human culture, had been lost even before the Quiet Rapture and this… this could be something good, something actually good that he could do to try to make even the smallest of amends for all the pain he'd caused.
“And if the rain won't wash away,” his voice shook on the sustained note, souring for a moment before it returned to key with his determination, “all your aches and pains…” Pausing, he strained his ears to hear the echo of the tune through the speaker. It had faded some but strengthened now, like it, too, knew the song was coming to a close. He inhaled, sharp but shaky.
“I will find some other way,” the ghost of a smile twitched at his lips. What a foreign feeling and yet this mere slip of contact with a kind soul had it appearing like divine blessing—a concept he'd long ago lost faith in. “To tell you ‘You're okay’.” He repeated “you're okay” a few times as his voice faded out, his eyes closing as the comforting notes continued. His cheeks were damp and he sniffled as subtly as he could, not wanting to break the fragile comfort of the moment.
The music on the other end faded out and the resulting silence was heavy but in a good way. He'd liken it to a warm embrace but he couldn't remember how that felt and if it would be a good enough comparison. He cleared his throat softly to hazard speaking to the music on the other end. Was he foolish to seek connection with another being when he'd been shown time and time again that it was pointless and he'd only be hurt in the end? Most definitely. It didn't stop the flutter of hope in his poor, battered heart.
He opened his mouth, took a breath and—
The radio shrieked static. Simon jumped violently, clapping his hands over his ears to protect them. He hated himself for cowering away from the sharp sound and hated himself even now with how he trembled in the aftershocks as it echoed in the tiny space.
“CONVICT. CHECK IN.” The voice demanded.
A growl ripped at his throat. “Fuck OFF!” He roared with an incandescent rage burning through his veins. Hatred burned bright and hot in his gut as he curled into himself. The static died down and near-silence overtook him once more. His head touched the control panel as he curled further forward and he buried his fingers into his sides, gripping hard enough to bruise. Hot, fury-stained tears slipped between his eyelids and burned down his face.
He just wanted to be left alone to do the mission and earn his freedom.
He didn't want to be alone.
Between one hitching sob and the next, soft stained notes of his mother's lullaby filtered through the speaker. It sounded far away and was fading, like they were being pulled apart, and Simon didn't know if it would ever find him again.
A most peculiar sound filtered through the ship’s hailing radio.
Said radio was on the bridge (which was on the complete opposite end of the ship) compared to where Rocky currently stood in the aft working on a repair. Decades ago, when he was still optimistic about being found and rescued by his fellow Eridians, he'd set the volume to the maximum capacity. It would have been impractical to hover about on the bridge waiting for a message that may never come. Especially… especially with all of the bodies. Rocky was an engineer, not… He wasn't the one who could, or should, touch the dead. With how they had all gotten slowly and steadily (and sometimes rapidly and unpredictably) ill, it had been best for him to sequester himself away in his bunk for as long as he could muster.
Staying awake in quarantine, with no one to watch him sleep, was a torture unlike he'd ever encountered before. He'd stayed awake as long as he could manage, lasting an impressive amount of time before his own body had given out. He woke to a completely silent world, the only sounds to break it were the ones that came from his own body.
He’d busied himself at first with every bit of maintenance he could do from his workshop, hiding from the cold, cruel reality that awaited him outside. Weeks later, he’d broken down and pulled out his finest tools and the most precious metals they'd brought with them. He was only an engineer and this… this was a task for a final commender, an Eridian who bestowed last rites. How he’d wished that there was someone else he could give this task to, and no sooner had he thought it did shame wash over him for thinking such a thing.
Guilt weighed heavy on his carapace and only when he finished a piece of remembrance jewelry for every member of his crew was some of it alleviated. Traveling swiftly, he'd adorned every member of his crew on his way to the bridge and back. He'd run as fast as his five limbs could carry him, wishing that breathing was something that could be controlled, could be stopped so that he might hold his breath and not infect himself with whatever sickness has killed them all.
But Rocky never got sick. He never found any answers, either. The last piece of remembrance jewelry was strung above his sleeping frame on a fragile mobile he built. If he didn't fix it every 32 cycles, then it would fall upon him when he, himself, no longer woke. He hoped it would never fall. He hoped his mate would never have to see it on him. He would rather them never to see him again than to see his body, limp and eroding.
The hailing radio made another sound, drawing Rocky away from his maudlin thoughts. He cocked his carapace in hopeful curiosity as the sounds thrummed down the gossamer xenonite strings. It became clear that he wouldn't be able to understand the message, if it indeed were one, if he didn't go to the bridge. His trepidation to leave his workshop nearly outweighed his curiosity, but he drew himself up as tall as he could (which was not as tall as he should be by now, but maybe outer space stunted Eridian growth milestones) and mustered all his courage. When bravery left him only a few steps from the workshop’s bounds, Rocky scurried to the bridge as fast as his limbs could muster.
The stillness of the bridge unsettled him. Usually, it was one of the most lively spaces on the ship. Every step echoed around him, revealing his dead crew and forcing him to remember what he wished he could forget. A perfect memory could be a curse as much as a boon.
Rocky walked up to the hailing radio which hummed faintly. The sound that had drawn Rocky to the bridge hadn’t happened again, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t waiting for a response. He shuffled a little before reaching up to press the button to activate the microphone. He sang out his greeting, his name and rank, and his relative position in orbit around the star that wasn’t sick. A pair of claws tapped together nervously as he waited for a response. He didn’t know how far away they were, or if it had taken a while for the message he missed to reach him.
An introspective chitter and a few steadily-growing-impatient taps later, Rocky had resolved to make himself a new radio that would connect to this one for his workshop. Before retreating to the ship’s aft once more, he trilled into the radio’s microphone again. This time, he requested they delay their response as he would be away from the radio and not hear their reply. He requested one cycle to get everything ready. Surely he could build a mesh network for the hailing radio in that time. If he built a few nodes, then the repeated signal would be stronger, too.
The excitement of a new project to focus on was just the distraction he needed. Guilt would find him later, when the ship grew too quiet. For now, he had something to build.
As the ship’s exterior robot placed the last piece under Rocky’s careful instruction, the transmitter on the workshop table thrummed to life. Giddy laughter shook his carapace and Rocky couldn’t help the excited, twirling dance. The connection to the prime hailing radio brought with it sounds like Rocky had never heard before. He leaned closer, cocked his carapace, and even adjusted the radio network to try to clarify the noises he heard but nothing he did could make them make sense.
Rocky had made contact with alien life! What else could it be? He sang out to them, wondering if they could hear him, if there wouldn’t be a delay in his message reaching them. If they were close enough, surely the reaction would be near instantaneous—
The sounds stopped and Rocky froze in place, anticipation building. An odd, pitchy whistling filtered almost hesitantly back to him, a mimicry of Rocky’s introduction. It wasn’t discernible as actual Eridian words at all, but the pattern was enough that he’d been able to recognize it for what it was. It lacked the depth and nuance of his language in a way that he knew that the radio wasn’t solely at fault. Maybe they couldn’t produce more than a single note simultaneously? That alone would eliminate a lot of his language. Not to mention how hard it would be for them to figure out how to communicate with each other.
Far be it for him to back down from a challenge.
As the silence stretched, Rocky made up his mind to broach it again. He sang to the alien of his mission, of where he was, and how he didn’t know how to fix the star-eater problem and save his star now that he was here. Singing of his crew was… was too difficult. It would be rude to dominate their conversation anyway, regardless of if they could understand each other or not. He didn’t need to understand the alien to have their presence soften the harshness of years of solitude.
The alien attempted to mimic him again, just a word or two that was simple enough that they could get it mostly right. It… it made him think of freshly hatched Eridian young learning how to sing for the first time—excepting that the frequency was much too low for a hatchling. Still, Rocky trilled notes of encouragement, wanting them to keep going. Anything at all was better than the silence.
The alien’s song shifted away from copying Rocky’s sounds and morphed into… into something else. Sounds that Rocky had never heard before flowed over him, fascinating and beautiful in their uniqueness. He tried to mimic some of the sounds back as it was only fair to try to meet the being halfway, but try as he might… he couldn’t replicate the distinctness of the noises at all. They flowed in a nonsensical song to him, a gibberish that still somehow managed to convey grief and love in turn.
Some emotions were universal.
Rocky followed the song as best he could, committing it to memory in hopes that it might be the key to figuring out how to communicate. A pattern in the notes revealed itself as the alien continued and Rocky, aching to maintain the connection, did his best to sing along where he could. His companion must have noticed, as their song crescendoed and the notes lost the subtle tremble. It halted as Rocky continued the tune with confidence. A sharp whoosh like a cycling of a gas came over the radio.
About to chirp and encourage them to continue, the song resumed. It was slower, less sad yet full of a longing that struck Rocky deep—a powerful chord that reverberated through his entire being. The notes repeated a pattern like a mantra, a prayer. Something in the tone of it elicited the warmth that a familial thrum might, a deep creature-comfort that Rocky hadn’t felt in so long. The alien’s voice faded as their song ended and Rocky paused for only a moment in his repetition of it before expressing his thanks. He didn’t have to understand the language for it to effect him.
Silence fell between them but it was a good silence. He didn’t know how to follow up from such an emotional exchange… but then, he didn’t need to.
The connection broke with a hiss of static and Rocky was alone once more.